Somewhere in London
by SavvyJackie
Summary: A miscellaneous collection of Sherlock writings.
1. The Flaw

_"Sherlock?"_

_John paced around his room, opening and closing drawers and glancing underneath all the furniture. _

_He didn't receive a reply and called out again. "Where are my clothes?"_

_Again, no answer. He went to the kitchen, where Sherlock stood hunched over a microscope, not showing any sign that he was conscious of John's presence (though of course John knew that was far from the truth)._

_"My clothes- they're all gone. Nothing left in the drawers. Have you done something with them?"_

_Sherlock curtly replied, "I needed them for an experiment."_

_"Sorry?"_

_"I'm using your clothes for an experiment with blood stains. The results will be helpful, so, don't worry, your clothes weren't taken in vain."_

_"An experiment with blood sta-" John rested a hand on his forehead and heaved out a long sigh. "And I suppose you couldn't have used your own clothes? Or couldn't have bought some?"_

_"No time to go running to the store, John. And I figured it would make more sense to sacrifice the cheaper and less presentable attire." _

_"Less presentable?" John scoffed. "And what am I supposed to wear now? I have a date tonight!"_

_Sherlock gave John a quick look-over before resuming his work. "There's nothing wrong with what you're wearing now. And she's not interested."_

_"Nothing wrong? I've been wearing this all day and- what did you say?"_

_"Anna, the woman you're planning to go on a date with tonight. She's not interested."_

_John ran a hand through his hair. "H-how do you know that? There is no way that you've met her before. I_asked._"_

_"No, we've never met. Saw you arrive home with her, though. You met her at the bar down the street. She likes to make frequent visits there, especially when her husband comes home from his promiscuous excursions with other women. As an attempt to incite jealousy, she hunts for other men at the bar. She is rarely successful in getting any sort of reaction out of her husband. If you want to do her any good, tell her to file for a divorce. She'll gain a nice profit."_

_Another sigh. "I suppose it's pointless for me to ask you to prove your theory."_

_"It's not a theory, it's a sound argument. Ask how I know and I'll give you a thorough answer."_

_John dismissed him with his hand and made to exit the room. "I'll cancel the date."_

_Sherlock smiled and muttered, "Of course you will."_

* * *

"It was all…a lie?"

"Every word. Except for the part about the less presentable attire."

"Why, Sherlock?"

"I was feeling bitter. You didn't help me sort through cases the previous day."

"So you chose to exact your revenge by robbing me of my clothes for three days and discrediting my date? That was taking it a bit too far, even for your taste, don't you think?"

"I did need the clothes, though not nearly as much."

"You're not answering my question."

Sherlock stared ahead, avoiding John's gaze. "I thought you'd…choose to leave."

"What? Leave where? Baker Street? What does that have to do with me going on a date? Or my clothes?" John curiously narrowed his eyes at the unfamiliar frown etched on Sherlock's forehead, one that he struggled to keep at bay.

"You didn't seemed very welcoming of my return, so I figured you wouldn't want to stay much longer."

Then, John understood. He understood everything. He remembered that Sherlock Holmes had a flaw: his damaging lack of understanding of the spectrum and depth of human emotion. It had made a prime example of itself just then.

"Jesus, Sherlock! Are you mad? I was angry because you lied to me, not upset that you returned. You honestly thought that I resented you and wouldn't want to live with you anymore?"

"It was a logical assumption; I had deceived you and caused you pain, and people have their limits."

"Friendships aren't always logical. Admittedly, you aren't the kindest or most considerate of friends, but would you honestly think for one moment that with everything we've been through, you being _alive _would be the last straw for me? You're my best friend."

"I don't deserve that title. You're too much of a good, moral citizen for me. I'm not one of the angels, remember?"

"You're wrong for once. I made the decision to compromise being a 'good, moral citizen' the moment I met you. Frankly, I don't think it's half as interesting to be an angel as it is to be like you."

"And what am I?"

"A human."

* * *

_**Hello readers, and thank you for reading!**_

_**I have this published on my Tumblr account,**_** irenedominatrix,**_** so, if you've seen it there before, know that this is not plagiarized! It is my own work (to an extent, of course, considering it's fanfiction). **_

_**Now, to give you an idea of what I'm doing here: this is going to be a series of drabble-type stories, though they might not necessarily correlate with one other. I am nowhere near ready to write a whole Sherlock story, but I do get struck with inspiration to write something for the Sherlock fandom from time to time, so I settled with this idea.**_

_**Hope you'll stick along for the ride!**_


	2. Mortals Sleep

One day, he sees him sleep.

The arrangement is too awkward to be intentional; the newspaper articles take up more space on the bed than he does. He lies vertically instead of horizontally and the covers are still neatly arranged beneath him.

The laptop sits open on the bed too. John silently curses Sherlock for figuring out the password again. Or maybe he's cursing himself.

It's winter and it's chilly, and judging by the way he is scrunched up in a fetal position, John guesses he is cold. He sets down the tray of food he had prepared for Sherlock on a nearby chair, his attempt at feeding the stubborn man failing for the second time that day.

He grabs a blanket hanging on the chair; this one is thicker than the one on the bed and probably a better insulator. Carefully, he cloaks it over him.

When Sherlock shifts and groans slightly, John holds his breath, anticipating his grey eyes to pop open and look around in question. But he doesn't wake up. He merely lets out a huff and digs his head deeper the mattress.

John goes to the door, knowing that the consulting detective would probably be upset to find that he hadn't allowed him to resume his work. He smirks.

Even consulting detectives need their sleep.


	3. The Cadaver

**_I wrote this without planning to. It turned into something I never expected it to become, as all unplanned things go, I suppose. But it was such a joy. It was a born from a passion I rarely find in myself, and I think that's why I am _****very ****_proud of it. _**

**_I hope you like it too. _**

* * *

During the first few days, he watched him run around the flat. At first, he tried to do it with polite discretion, but Sherlock gave so little acknowledgement of his presence that John gave in to ogling at his movements without much restraint.

It was a fascinating sight, the way he frantically looked through papers, held up various objects and scrutinized them with squinting eyes, and muttered things that were, for the most part, inaudible, though John was sure he heard him curse a few times. It seemed natural for him to express his frustrations that way, accompanied by a clenched jaw and deep frown etched in his forehead.

He became a mental cadaver as John tried to find his motive with a desperate scalpel. In his metaphorical dissection, John was mostly interested in the brain, but being an amateur inspecting the body of a professional, he hardly knew where to start. He considered asking him for help. But how do you ask your own experiment how its biology works? You don't, John thought. You do the best with what you have.

Considering the way he waved away people when he was swimming in a case or an experiment, John guessed he was not someone who liked to waste time, especially when it came to people's feelings. No, there was no safe bet on whether he even understood them, but either way, he didn't walk on eggshells around anyone, instead preferring to serve the truth on a cold, steel platter.

One day, John had offered him tea.

"No, thank you," Sherlock drawled, amplifying the distracted quality of his tone.

John didn't take anything from it. "You sure? You haven't had anything to drink all day."

"Your tea is tasteless. I don't like the brand you buy and prefer to make it myself."

John gave a hesitant smile. "Oh, er, all right. You make it yourself then."

Sherlock didn't reply for two days. When he did, though, he suggested John his preferred tea as well as how to serve it. John patiently listened, tried his advice, and found himself chuckling quietly after taking a small sip of Sherlock's tea. It was bloody delicious.

He was a thrill-seeker. That was John's second observation. His lack of sleep and complete disregard for sustenance was a bit worrisome at first, but then John remembered he was not a normal creature. He began to bounce off the walls like a heating particle at the progression of each soliloquy, his grey eyes soaking up all the light in the room and reflecting it with more force than any mirror with every discovery. Information, specific information, _was _his sustenance. It certainly allowed him to work without a blink of an eye, whereas John could only last so long, even with a nutritious, allegedly energizing meal.

Sherlock had pride in his work and intellect. There was a confidence to the way he shrugged on his coat, a smoothness to the way he wrapped his royal blue scarf around his neck.

And yet, he was hiding something.

He strayed from the sentimentality that came with helping people and announced ardently that he was doing this only because it interested him. Yet he didn't laugh at other people's emotions. Mostly, he was irritated by them. Labeled them as weak.

This made John wonder. Sherlock didn't like to be seen as weak. He liked argumentatively booming contradictory evidence at those he considered beneath him. Winning was simply solving a case, and he also liked that. But there were moments between his cases. There were breaks in his searches.

One day, John sat in the living room chair, holding his fingertips to his lips in musing, when Mrs. Hudson came in.

Sherlock was standing by the window, polishing his violin.

"Sherlock, dear?"

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson?"

"There's a nasty cockroach in my kitchen. Do you think you could kill it for me? I'm awfully frightened of those things and can barely aim a shoe right," she said miserably, glancing between John and Sherlock as she did.

John made to get up and do the job, sure Sherlock would bark at her to not disturb him as he had done so whenever she offered him something or asked how things were going. But to his surprise, Sherlock turned, set the violin down, and marched to the neat line of shoes standing by the door.

"Is it big?" He began to pick up each shoe, look over it, and weigh it in his hand, as if it were another piece of evidence he needed to understand to help him solve a case.

"Huge." Mrs. Hudson visibly shivered.

"Can it fly?"

"I have no idea, and I don't want to find out!" The lady retreated towards the door frame, as if trying to run away from the thought.

Finally, Sherlock seemed to decide on one of the black dress shoes he owned. It looked slightly worn but sturdy. He jumped into a standing position. "This will do. I wouldn't mind smearing a bit of cockroach blood on it."

"Oh, Sherlock, why do you have to make it sound more disgusting?" Mrs. Hudson said, placing a hand on one cheek.

Sherlock hugged Mrs. Hudson reassuringly with one arm and gently gave her a shake. "It's as all battles go, Mrs. Hudson, but you have nothing to fear. I'll emerge from this unscathed and you shall have a clean kitchen."

She laughed and returned the small, warm smile that graced his face. John stared, at a loss for words, feeling it looked foreign. Then, he realized there was something right about the smile, too, like a pair of keys that needed a bit more use before they effortlessly slid into their keyhole.

As they walked away to face the formidable enemy that was the cockroach, John understood Sherlock was not fully developed. There were parts of him, distinct and permanent parts of him, that even a great mind like his might not have understood. But a person cannot execute a soft smile or a protective, comforting embrace without meaning it. A person does not silently take a cup of tea, improved by a bit of arrogant recommendation, try it, and smirk, only to finish the whole pot by morning (after its maker bids him goodnight with a hint of pride in their voice from knowing they made the best damned tea in their life) if they are mean. A person does not suggest and then insist that their partner try his own deduction if they are truly a mocker of those who cannot make the same assessments.

Sherlock was not the person everyone thought he was.

The edges of John's lips twitched up. Funny, he thought. Not everyone knew he was a person.


	4. Asphyxia

**_This one is a bit different and _****may ****_be confusing at first, but I think everything comes to light in the end. It might help to know that it takes place after "The Reichenbach Fall". Still if you have any questions about it after you read it, feel free to ask. _**

**_Enjoy!_**

* * *

The room was frustratingly poorly lit, and Sherlock was forced to distract himself from the dead body splayed out on the metal table below.

"Lestrade, I can't see anything. Turn up the light, will you?"

Lestrade who was standing with both hands on his hips and looking intently at the body, jumped at the mention of his name. "I can't, Sherlock. Sorry. This is as far as they go."

"Oh, fantastic." The detective briskly pulled on his protective gloves and leaned down over the shadowy figure of a large, pale woman. His eyes scanned her face thoroughly, and he furrowed his brows, feeling there was something odd about the structure of her face. Loathing mulling over the unnecessary, he pushed the distracted thoughts away, picked up her right arm, and hovered his fingers over the deep gashes slashed across it.

"You said she was attacked by a mugger?"

Lestrade gave a hum of confirmation.

"It appears-" Sherlock stopped abruptly, feeling a pressing need to swallow. He gave a hard blink and tried to summon the words to his lips again. "It appears these cuts were inflicted-"

Suddenly, his mind became a blank slate, and the path to whatever previous conclusions he thought he'd drawn dissolved below his feet. A neat, clearly-labeled map, once spread more smoothly across the surface of his brain than the body underneath his lowering lids, was nowhere to be found. And yet, he didn't remember looking at it. He didn't remember referencing it at any time during his stay in the room.

_Start from square one, _Sherlock advised himself. He let go of the woman's arm and approached Lestrade. "Who is this woman, Lestrade? You've failed to tell me anything."

Lestrade avoided Sherlock's gaze, keeping it fixed on some point in the distance. For a moment, Sherlock thought he didn't hear him. "She…well, you know who she is, Sherlock. You should give us something to work with now. We're wasting time."

Another hard, confused blink. A flexing of fingers and lean towards the man who'd just spoken. "My mind is clear on this. I _don't _have any idea of who she is. Information like that is a catalyst. I can't make an efficient use of time because I have nothing to go off of."

Donovan stepped out of the dark corner at the far end of the room. Sherlock was surprised by the extent of his capability to ignore her. He'd completely forgotten she'd been in the room the whole time.

She approached slowly, carefully, as if scared to wake a sleeping animal. Once she'd come to the other side of the table holding the body, she stopped. "This woman murdered John, Sherlock. How could you not know who she is?" Her voice was low, but clear as water.

The lights, or what little was available of them, flickered ominously.

Sherlock felt something suck the warmth out of his chest, his veins, his heart. A sputtering beat pulsed in his ears. "What did you say?"

They must have seen the realization carve out on his face, not saying anything. Indeed, Sherlock flinched back into the hard edge of another table behind him and felt his jaw go slack at the cold, stinging sharpness of the words.

"John…" he murmured. One of his hands flew up to his face, and he tried to suck in air from in-between his long, skeletal fingers.

_Of course, _he thought. A shiver passed through his whole lanky frame. _How could I forget? John is dead. John is-_

Suddenly, Sherlock was very conscious of the weight of his body. His hand sluggishly fell away from his face, and somehow, he found that he had collapsed to the floor. He planned to rise immediately, interrogate Lestrade and Donovan as to the details of John's murder, and observe the body for clues of-

No. No, that wasn't right. His friend was dead. His friend was _dead._

Sherlock's lips parted. He wanted to ask why he was investigating the body. What was the point, when there was no puzzle to solve?

_John was dead. _That was the answer.

Before he could say anything, Lestrade took three large strides in his direction and handed him a phone.

No, not just _a _phone, _the _phone. The pink phone that wasn't the pink phone. Moriarty's design.

One long, screechy pip sounded.

Sherlock put the phone to his ear, his hand shaking as he did so.

"Hello?"

"What's the answer?"

No one had asked the question but Sherlock thought he'd heard it. "John is dead," he answered evenly, smoothly.

But something felt off. Why was the situation so sporadic?

_I must find my purpose, _Sherlock reasoned. And the thing that was making his throat constrict, the animal that was prying open his mouth and urging him to scream, was John. John, dead. So he made his decision.

He stood. He roughly snatched his coat off the coat hanger, put it on, kicked open the door, and ran. Ran until he reached the exit of the building.

At the doors, he stopped, turned in a circle and ran his hands through his hair.

_Where _was _John?_

Sherlock tried to navigate through his mind. To remember. But again, he could not find his map. Instead, he ran smack into a maze, with winding roads and razor-sharp turns. Each time he tried to locate John, there was a dead end. A dead end.

"Lestrade!" he exclaimed. "I could ask him."

He ran again, with full force, with the desire to take deeper breaths. He ran until he turned to a small, white-walled waiting room he didn't recognize.

Realizing he must've gone the wrong way, he turned back, only to find a long hallway with identical doors sweeping across each side. They all looked like the doors of the room he came from.

He was lost.

Frantically, he began to try every door. With each excruciatingly painful discovery that it was the _wrong _room, he slammed the door. One after the other. Slammed it, hoping someone would hear the crash and come out and direct him to his desired location.

No one came.

With every slam, he muttered his name.

Slam.

John.

Slam.

John.

Slam.

_John._

It was in one particular case when he said his name that something finally snapped. Some wire cut the cruel connection of his mind to the agonizing world of unconsciousness. And there he was, sitting on his bed with tense, rigid muscles and tears pouring down his face. They so irritated his eyes and face with their stickiness that he immediately began to swipe them away.

His heart pushed incessantly and forcefully against his chest, though his stomach no longer felt wrenched like it had in the nightmare. How could it? He breathed, and something about the concentration and movement of the dust particles in the air told him that John was there, somewhere in the flat, with a healthy, pulsing heart and steady cycle of respiration.

He fell back against the bed and took a deep breath. Focused on taking in the oxygen through his nose and blowing it out through his mouth. Took it to a pace he predicted John would be breathing, if he was awake.

Faintly, he wondered whether this was the pain he had burdened John with. For nights. For countless nights. For years.

Against his own will, Sherlock dared to picture John in the state he himself was in and ground his teeth.

_I am cruel, _he thought. _I am a criminal. _

Eventually, he calmed, the dark too overwhelming to let him hang on much longer. Before he slept, he forced one last promise to breath into his chest.

John will never again see a night of terror.

Then, he took his breathing to a pace his soul would be breathing if it were asleep.


	5. Sherlocked

**_This one is a poem with a slight "A Scandal in Belgravia" theme to it. Hope you like it. ;)_**

* * *

**Sherlocked**

I strung the stubborn strings of your heart

and your stoic face

was momentarily disturbed

like a rock skipping along

still water.

You prefer a violin cradled on your shoulder

rather than a woman

so that's what I supposed you were,

but you also lost sleep

trying to decipher what strings _I_ had-

if I had strings.

But you are the world's

greatest musician,

you know how the flute-whispers of your lips

give my ears a pulse.

I wanted to be the violin,

and it was only a matter of time before you

learned to play me

with tied hands and

fast words capable of luring me

into the file of cases

solved.


End file.
